


cheers to the wish you were here (but you're not)

by completist



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Childhood Friends, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Weddings, iwaoi-centric but if u read the og story u would know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24490327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/completist/pseuds/completist
Summary: Dead Stars symbolize the dream of something nonexistent. Before his wedding, Oikawa Tooru sees again the light of a dead star, whose glow is still visible from Earth, even after they are gone.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime & Oikawa Tooru, Oikawa Tooru/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Comments: 10
Kudos: 32





	1. when I believed in forever, and everything would stay the same

**Author's Note:**

> This au is inspired by [Dead Stars](https://www.sushidog.com/bpss/stories/stars.htm), a short story by Paz Marquez Benitez.
> 
> You can think of this fic as that au where Oikawa and Iwaizumi did not grow up together, and only met during summer vacations. And of course, at some point Oikawa meets Ushijima. Or something like that, idk im not sure hahaha
> 
> My first ushioi, iwaoi, ushiwaoi(?) fic! Dedicated to ate Sine, who supported the idea when I first tweeted it; to bebe Trish who brought this fic back to life when I almost gave up on it! 
> 
> This fic is divided into two parts, though I’ve only started on the second one lol i need inspiration (-̩̩-̩̩͡_-̩̩-̩̩͡)
> 
> Unbeta'd.

"Are we going to meet again?"

"I hope so."

"You hope so?" Oikawa pouts and crosses his arms.

"Yeah."

"Promise on it, Iwa-chan." Oikawa extends his pinky finger, smiling at Iwaizumi. The moon sits high on the sky, the stars smiling down on them.

"What, why?"

"So we'll be happy when we grow old."

"Why?"

"Because we're together. Swear it."

Iwaizumi meets his gaze, "I swear."

They sat there together, staring at their joined hands. Oikawa looks up, stares at the moon, and prays. He prays that he'll remember, prays that he'll come back, and prays that there will be no other.

Lost in the vastness of the sky, the memory rises to share a moment with the moon, and travels to meet the stars.

* * *

*

*

*

* * *

  
The humid, summer air flows into the room.

Oikawa lies in his bed— his bed? Their bed? He doesn't know. Maybe it's still his or became his again. Four years—two when he felt like it's theirs, the other two when he felt like it's his own. They've been so busy. Chasing dreams, flying high.

Ushijima's grandmother is speaking from the living room. Loud enough to hear from a floor above if Oikawa listens intently.

"And what of the marriage?"

"There's no rush," Ushijima replies, speaking as flatly as ever.

"Wakatoshi, how long has it been?"

"Seven. Four years engaged."

"Four? That came fast."

"Grandmother—"

"—I'm just saying." Oikawa turns in the bed, breathes out, and brushes his hair back. "That it feels like both of you are taking too much time."

"We're going to take as much time as Tooru needs."

"Well he's taking too much, don't you think?"

Pulling the pillow from the back of his head, Oikawa uses it to muffle his groans. He can't even count the years without feeling shame. He knows, he knows. He knows as clearly as the joy he felt that night four years ago; when Ushijima went down to his knees and smiled up at him. He knows then, even without seeing the ring yet. He knows the answer, knows that he will extend his hand to Ushijima, and tightly hold his—the answer out without even hearing the question and Ushijima has smiled. He smiled so brightly it rivaled the setting sun.

The heat and restlessness of their love at the time playing through his mind. Like a classic, badly saturated movie. It was as Ushijima's grandmother had said: everything came fast. _And furious_ , Oikawa would have liked to say. He embraced the love served to him during that one fateful moment before twilight began. Embraced it so fully as though there is nothing else that will come, nothing that will leave, and nothing that will return. He embraced the love given to him and raced through time cradling it in his chest, not once looking back at what was falling, not recognizing the road spiraling to bring him back to someplace he knows.

And then, he found himself engaged to Ushijima Wakatoshi.

"Does it matter?" He hears Ushijima say. There's tightness in his tone, that to this day Oikawa still wonders whether he got it from his mom or his dad. Not that he ever met both. "Engagements can take as long as it needs."

"Oh, my sweet boy." A moment passed. Oh, what Oikawa would give to just muster up the courage and get married now if that'll shut them up. "Engagements are either hot or cold, don't you think? In your case, I think it's colder. You're together, share the same interests but chose to walk different paths; only to collide again in the comfort of what you both treat as your home. You understand one another but the fact that the engagement has taken this long? I would have to wonder what both of you are willing to give to have that last burst of hot blood to fuel the car that will carry you to a wedded life."

"Please, grandmother. Can we talk about something else?"

Slowly, Oikawa rises. He covers his face with both hands and then stares at them. What would he give? What would he not give? Standing up, he walks to the adjoining bathroom. He does not hear what they chose to talk about next as he drowns everything out with the sound of running water hitting the tired muscles of his naked body.

"Tooru," Ushijima smiles, pulling him to a tight hug the moment his grandmother left their home. "I'm sorry about grandmother."

"It's fine, really. You don't have to apologize."

"It's just..."

"Frustrating?" Oikawa pulls away, forcing their gazes to meet. "Do you wanna get married now?"

"I'd like to wait for you."

"However long?"

"As long as it takes."

He buries his face in Ushijima’s chest, fighting back a sob. "Let’s go on a vacation in April. At my parents' place."

"In Nueva Ecija?"

"Yeah."

"That's six months from now."

Oikawa nods as he hugs him tighter, pressing their bodies closer as the day slowly creeps into the night.

"Okay."

He finds Ushijima's lips with his eyes closed. He would know him anywhere; in life, and in death. He would know the way his feet trudges the earth and leaves it when he jumps, would know the way he cradles every little thing in his huge hands. Ushijima would have waited for him however long, would have waited for him at the ends of the earth; until the sun bursts to eternal flames in the sky; until the moon drops and drowns in the sea.

A lot has changed since he's been here last.

Oikawa steps into his childhood home with Ushijima's hand in his, a small smile gracing his lips. The house has retained its simple elegance despite the renovations made to modernize it. The walls are lined with photographs of Oikawa's family; some when he was still a baby, then his childhood years, high school photographs, along with other classic wooden mementos—the big spoon and fork, the Last Supper carved on wood. Somehow, the designs of the past do not chaotically clash with the designs of the present. He belatedly remembers the framed photos his mom sent for him to put up. Ushijima walks closer to one of the photos still illuminated by the setting sun. “Is this your childhood friend? Iwaizumi Hajime?”

“I’m surprised you remember.”

“He’s an important part of your childhood, of course, I remember.”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“How long was he in Japan again?”

“A couple of years,” Oikawa replies, fetching the bag with the photos and placing it on the low coffee table. “His paternal great grandparents own some land here in the Philippines. They’re the ones who sold this portion to my great grandparents, and then Iwa-chan’s family migrated before he started attending school.”

Ushijima hums, nodding to himself. Oikawa watches him in his periphery, sees him tilt his head as he observes each photo.

That night, when they have settled in at Oikawa’s old room, lying in Oikawa’s childhood bed, Oikawa remembers. Iwaizumi Hajime. Hajime to his parents, Iwaizumi to the farmers who are so fond of him, and Iwa-chan to him. Introduced to him by his father as the eldest child of the farmer whose house sits in the middle of the farm beside theirs. He was that one kid who approached him on his first summer vacation, the only one who tried to talk to another Japanese kid who can understand yet speaks broken Filipino, and string together perfect English.

Slowly, carefully, he unwinds Ushijima’s arms around him. He lingers for a moment by the window, stares at the only light in the middle of a farm, then quietly leaves the room. Nineteen years ago, that house meant nothing to him. Nineteen years ago, it was just a house in the middle of a farm; not a beacon of a promise sworn under the watchful gaze of the moon, and the pleasing smiles of the stars.

_“Pangalan mo ulit?” Iwa-chan shouted the question at him. Oikawa had finally stopped following him when he stepped into the pigpen, the foul smell assaulting their senses. (“What’s your name again?”)_

_“Oikawa Tooru.”_

_“Ah. Eh, where do you— go, come—” Iwa-chan made a couple of weird gestures with the_ tabo _, the pigs squawking in their pens at the sudden splash of water. It was called a_ tabo _, grandmother Josie—the house caretaker—had said, which he would later find out to be called a dipper. He hears a frustrated sound and beams at Iwa-chan._

_“Where did I come from?”_

_“OO, ‘YON! Hirap naman ng ganito, mag-aral ka nga mag-Tagalog!” (“YES, THAT! Study speaking in Filipino, will you? It’s so hard to talk to you.”)_

_“Japan. My parents said they are friends with yours, and we were too as babies.”_

The front door gave a small click as it closed behind him. He steps onto the gravel road, wincing as the hard rocks assault the pads of his feet through his thin slippers. Walking quickly to the hammock hanging by the tall acacia tree in front of their house, he literally jumps into the worn and slightly frayed _duyan_ and lifts his feet; massaging it as he mumbles to himself.

“Didn’t know you were back.” Oikawa startles at the voice, dropping his foot back to the ground, trimmed nails barely missing the stones. He turns to see the owner of the voice grinning at him. Iwa-chan.

They stare at each other until Iwaizumi scowls at him. And he suddenly realizes he still hasn’t said a thing. “Oh, come on! I don’t look that bad.” He brushes back his hair, long fingers running over the undercut.

 _No,_ Oikawa wants to say, _not at all._ Not with the way his bangs fall across his forehead, although the undercut was certainly a surprise. Certainly not with the way he still looks the same as he did whenever Oikawa sees him during his summer vacations—tanned skin, black hair, and hazel eyes. He looks more mature, although some hints of boyishness are still present in his features. And as Iwaizumi motions for him to scoot to his left so he can sit with him, Oikawa notices how broad he has grown. Broader than him, that’s for sure; and looking more athletic than him too _._ With their sides pressed together from shoulders to hips to knees, Iwaizumi looks at him. 

Their gazes meet and Oikawa remembers again. He remembers how the golden rays of the setting sun reflect against those hazel eyes, like the vivid color of dripping honey, like the way the tilled earth looks on a stifling summer afternoon — like a new day, where nothing could go wrong.

Oikawa smiles, brushing his hair back with his left hand. “I’m good, Iwa-chan. And you?”

“Better now.” Iwaizumi replies, eyes closed and face directed to the moon like he’s soaking the reflected light of the sun, like he’s savoring the moment. Oikawa lifts his eyes to look at the stars too. They’re dimmer now, he notes, and fewer than he recalls. _Must be the light pollution_. He sighs and hugs his knees to his chest. 

“What brings you here?”

“You wound me, Iwa-chan. Are you saying I can’t have another summer vacation?”

“You haven’t had one in nine years. What changed?”

“You speak English better now.”

He’s pretty sure Iwaizumi just rolled his eyes and is now scowling at him. Amusement plays in his lips as he opens his eyes, and meets Iwaizumi’s serious gaze instead. Face blank, lips set into a thin line, eyes empty. There's no telling what's going on in his head except for the way his eyebrows meet, letting Oikawa know that he’s genuinely surprised, if mildly confused.

“You’re getting married.”

The words hang between them like an abyss, like the huge expanse of land crawling below the mountain they climbed during that one summer before college. It hangs heavily between them, and it wasn’t an accusation, not even a question as much as it is a statement. It hangs between them like that split second before the judge’s gavel hits the surface and changes the course of somebody else’s life.

“I am.”

“Congratulations.” Iwaizumi smiles, a simple motion of lifting the corners of his lips. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes like Oikawa remembers it does. Instead, they are faint, quiet; contemplative even. And as the cicadas begin playing their nightly melody, Oikawa finds that he longs to know the meaning of that smile.

It wasn’t the _Congratulations_ he received from his friends; happy, glad, like a sigh of _finally, after all these years._ It wasn’t the _Congratulations_ his mother told him, happy tears streaming down her cheeks, the wrinkles around her eyes pronouncing the happiness she feels for her boy. _Wakatoshi is perfect for you, Tooru._ It wasn’t the _Congratulations_ in the way his father’s arms wrapped around him, solid and strong. _If he ever hurts you…_

It was a simple _Congratulations,_ and yet Oikawa feels like the brightest shooting star just passed by without him looking up.

The following morning brings Iwaizumi to their breakfast table, carrying with him a bursting bag of freshly picked Indian mangoes. Oikawa’s favorite.

“He seems nice.” says Ushijima, during one of the late afternoon walks they have come to take ever since arriving in the province. 

Oikawa hums, a soft sound from his pursed lips. He sways their joined hands between them, eyes directed to the gravel-covered ground, kicking a couple of stones at every step. All while wondering why some portion of the road has been smoothed and covered in concrete, while the majority remains graveled. _Must be the budget_. They’re on their way back to the house, having passed by grandmother Josie’s canteen, the Perez’s compound, and is now walking along the road beside Iwaizumi’s farm. 

“Hajime, I mean.”

Oikawa hums again. The sound of laughter and axe cutting through wood reaches them from the farm. He glances at the house and sees Iwa-chan, as well as some children playing behind him.

“He is, isn’t he?”

Ushijima hums. And Oikawa raises his head to see him looking over at the farm, to the house in the middle of it, and to Iwaizumi herding the children with a log of wood to start setting the table for dinner, his tone light, laughter bubbling beneath the surface. He sounds content.

A simple tug at the hand he's holding shifts Ushijima's attention to him, they smile at each other. "Why don't I cook dinner tonight?"

"I'd love that, Tooru."

They enter the gates leading to the house, and Oikawa wonders if this is also what Iwaizumi thinks contentment feels like.

The following week finds the engaged couple helping Iwaizumi out on the farm. That is, Ushijima helps Iwaizumi, while Oikawa spends time with the children Iwaizumi teaches.

They hit it off well, Oikawa notes at one point while watching them. They don’t clash, rather they work seamlessly, like a well-oiled gear on a worn bicycle. Ushijima is a quick learner, and Iwaizumi is patient as ever; directing a movement here and there with a firm hand, instructing with simple and direct words. He can’t hear what they’re talking about but seeing them laughing—Ushijima bashfully looking down, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles; Iwaizumi throwing his head back, sweat running down the column of his neck as the wind carries his booming laughter—causes him to smile too.

A hand shyly taps his arm to get his attention. “Does that ring—” one of the kids, Mac-mac, the impressionable seven-year-old of Iwaizumi’s friend, asks— “Means you’re getting married?”

Oikawa grins, turning his attention to the children. He holds up his hand wearing the ring for them to see better. “Yes, it is.” 

“Ah,” the eldest among the four at twelve, Princess leans to peer closer. “It’s simple but beautiful.”

The ring was a simple band of silver with gold lining, with words etched on the underside grazing Oikawa’s skin; like a reminder whenever he feels lost, whenever he feels confused.

“Who are you getting married to?”

“Him,” Oikawa points at Ushijima over his shoulders. 

“But—”

“Mac-mac,” Princess says, tone bordering on reprimanding.

“I’m not judging! There’s nothing to judge!” Mac-mac replies, insistent. He crosses his arms. “I was just going to say it’s not allowed here.”

Oikawa laughs, rustling Mac-mac’s hair, and easing Princess’ worry of disrespect with his smile. “You’re all smart children.”

“Of course, we are.” Jerome, a ten-year-old who acts so much like Iwaizumi at that age, huffs. “ _Kuya_ Hajime teaches us.” _(Kuya means older brother)._

“Did he teach you anything about love?”

He watches the children contemplate to themselves. “Did he perhaps say that love knows no bounds?”

“Among other things,” Princess confirms.

“He said that while the State does not recognize all forms of love, it doesn’t mean they don’t exist, nor does it mean they’re not valid. And that we can’t make them recognize it.”

“He said that we can’t allow whatever religion says to negate the love we feel.”

“He said that some people do not necessarily know how to fall in love. They dive in even though they don’t know how to swim. So they panic.”

Oikawa looks over his shoulders to see the two men walking closer to them. Iwaizumi is shaking his head, staring at the kids with playfully narrowed eyes. Ushijima is following him close by, wearing that smile he always wears when his body thrums with energy after working a good sweat.

“But then at some point, they figure it out.” says Oikawa.

Raucous began as Iwaizumi playfully hounds the children, asking them what they’re up to while he’s working blood, toil, tears, and sweat at the farm. He watches them run around the shade of the mango tree with Ushijima by his side.

“We heard.” Ushijima says, plain and simple—like it’s no big deal, asking the children close to your childhood friend what he told them about love is no big deal. And maybe it shouldn't, but it pushes Oikawa at ease, knowing that everything can be so simple with Ushijima and still keep a certain dignity to it, threads of grace weaving beneath the surface.

“And what do you think of love?” 

“I suppose we never did talk about that.”

“No,” Oikawa shakes his head, dragging the word out as he pulls at the towel around Ushijima’s neck and uses it to wipe the sweat gathering at his forehead. “We never seem to have the time.”

“And do we have now?” Ushijima eases his hand away from his face, cradling it in both of his hands instead. Oikawa stifles at the shiver running down his spine at the warmth. “Time, that is.”

A question as much as a double-edged sword. Their gazes meet and Oikawa wonders why, in seven years, they never talked about this kind of thing. Seven years and he hadn’t stopped to think. In all those years, has the meaning of love, perhaps eluded him? Seven years of quenching the thirst as much as trying to live in the present; flying high to reach the stars. But were the stars even meant to be reached? Life, of the past seven years, seems to have passed by unknowingly—making him feel cheated. Is love nothing but a mere fabrication? An attempt to cage a thousand fevered dreams into a single word, a glorification of the mundane, a juxtaposition of loneliness and pain.

And perhaps Ushijima’s grandmother is right. That everything came fast, and the engagement is either hot or cold. “We can have all the time in the world if we so desire.”

Chuckling, Ushijima shakes his head. He reaches for a bottle of iced water on the cooler box behind him. “That was surprisingly optimistic of you, Tooru.”

Oikawa waits for him, noticing that Iwaizumi and the children have started preparing the table for lunch. The children are teasing him, and he indulges them by making faces at the comments they throw at him. “So?”

“I don’t think I can speak words that haven't been said before,” Ushijima begins, urging him to meet his gaze with a squeeze of his hand. “But maybe to love is to be careful with people, and with words. Loneliness and resentment only change your heart, not others. But maybe—” He sighs, looking over the farm, at the swaying branches of trees, leaves languidly falling and dancing along with the rhythm of the wind— “Maybe to love is a rare and most beautiful thing. Love changes your heart, as much as it changes other people’s.”

“For the better?”

“I think so.” The children call for them, and Iwaizumi is giving them an exasperated look. _Lovebirds,_ the look says; he motions for Ushijima to help him bring the table closer to the tree and away from the blazing afternoon sun. “I hope so.” Ushijima finishes before standing up, letting go of his hand as he walks to meet Iwaizumi under the shade of the same mango tree Oikawa and Iwaizumi were first introduced to each other on that fateful summer day, all those years ago.

The first rain of May finds Oikawa stuck in a branch of a mango tree. 

Iwaizumi is laughing below him, holding a _bayong_ half-filled with mangoes that Oikawa hand-picked himself. He had insisted he’d climb the tree, just to prove he can still do it.

“Dumbass.” Iwaizumi says, grinning up at him. 

Oikawa pouts, crossing his arms as he balances himself. “Iwa-chan, rude.”

“You’re still a dumbass.” Iwaizumi places the _bayong_ at the foot of the tree, leaning it against one of its big, sprawling roots. He wipes his hands on the loose pants he’s wearing before climbing the tree.

“What— what are you doing?” Oikawa frantically asks, holding onto the branch with both hands as he looks at Iwaizumi, eyes wide. The tree shaking at the added weight. “We might fall!”

“You won’t break anything at this height, Shittykawa.”

“Still!” Oikawa insists as Iwaizumi hoists himself on the branch closest to him, causing the branches to shake—if it could, Oikawa thinks it would have _groaned—_ and sending droplets of water that accumulated on the leaves to fall. He leans back at the trunk and crosses his arms. 

“Still what?”

“Hmph.” Oikawa rolls his eyes. The rain continues to pour, watering the crops and turning the soft soil into mud. Carefully, Oikawa leans his back against the trunk, his shoulders almost bumping against Iwaizumi. 

It’s easy to forget. So easy, that Oikawa belatedly realizes he should be scared. It’s easy to forget up here, slowly getting drenched by the lazy downpour, protected by leaves and branches older than both of them. So easy to forget the nine years that separated them, the nine years threatening to estrange them from another. So easy to forget, with all of his worries muted by the sound of rain.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa glances at him, letting his arms fall to his lap. “Why didn’t you go back to Japan?”

Iwaizumi sighs. And for a while, Oikawa thought he would not receive a reply. Or that he was supposed to see the answer in the way Iwaizumi’s shoulders fall, relaxed, at ease, at _home._ Or that he was supposed to see it with the way his eyes shine as he looks around them, lips quirking into a smile that Oikawa is surprised to realize that he's unfamiliar with.

“In here— do you see?” He says, eventually. And he says it so vaguely that Oikawa couldn’t help but frown, and turn to fully look at him. Rain continues to fall the skies darkening even more. “Up there,” He points to the mountains. “I look for something.”

Oikawa huffs a laugh. “Your haiku is one line short, Iwa-chan.”

“You’re not gonna ask me what it is?”

“Fine,” Oikawa replies, making an effort to sound exasperated instead of letting the gnawing curiosity within him be heard. “What are you looking for?”

“Freedom; a way to break free—”

“Huh, since when are you so jaded?”

“—and the heart’s desire.”

Oikawa pauses, swallowing the lump that lodged itself in his throat. He listens. No, he waits so he can listen. His nerves tingling with anticipation. The thrill of the chase, of hanging in the air before that one moment where his hand meets the ball; energy thrumming through his veins. His life with this man beside him laid across like snapshots in his mind—the film seen against the late afternoon sun, echoes of laughter carried by the summer wind, open windows letting them peer at the stars, streams of silver moonlight marking promises whispered in the quiet of the night.

“Are we really so old, Iwa-chan?”

“No,” Iwaizumi laughs, rubbing the back of his head. “My life hasn’t experienced a _bang!_ yet or a _ka-boom!_ It’s all _whoosh!_ so far. So no, we’re not that old yet.”

Comfortable silence envelopes them as Oikawa merely shakes his head. And then he’s waiting again. So he could listen. Listen and memorize the timber and rhythm of that one voice the montage of his memories now lacks.

"Down here," says Iwaizumi, with a faraway look in his eyes. Wistful. He looks like an old soul stuck in a young body. "We walk the same rotten path, wizened by torrential rains and thunder and lightning. Sometimes a light blooms in the dark and we're drawn to it like moths in a humid summer night, but it always fails to take us to any better place."

"What are you trying to say, Iwa-chan?"

"The reason I did not go back when I'm fully capable of doing so, is that there's something I can do here."

"Like what?"

Iwaizumi looks at him, "Tooru, this place may exist only during summer for you, but it's not for me. There's a fight here that calls."

"Down here, people speak of the rich and powerful as if they are absolute. People see their influence to be something as inevitable as forces of nature. I resent that, because I know that's not the case. This unequal society has only stood for so long because people don't know, people are deprived of the knowledge to subvert an oppressive system that continues to draw them away from the opportunities they deserve. And this lack of awareness and knowledge is perpetuated by those in power— and those who want to remain in power." Oikawa meets his hardened gaze, the voice at the back of his mind wondering how and when his childhood best friend has grown into such a man. Only for the same voice to ask him where _he_ was when his childhood best friend has grown into such a man. "But up there—"

"—up there, the chance to change everything waits."

Oikawa follows the hand that Iwaizumi is pointing towards the far-away mountains. "Your heart's desire."

"Not particularly, no." Iwaizumi laughs, turning the full force of his grin to Oikawa who sees a boy in front of him, instead of the young man Iwa-chan has grown to. He sees a young Iwa-chan, laughing and sweaty, hair plastered on his forehead. "You have it."

"Your heart's desire?" Oikawa asks, willing the fast beating of his heart to calm down. There's a smile in Iwa-chan's lips again—soft, wistful.

"Once upon a time, yes, you did." 

"But you've only known me for a few summers." Oikawa insists, willing his racing thoughts to skid to a stop. The rain pours harder, further obscuring the shooting star he already failed to see.

"I could look everywhere all my life, and still think I would only find it in you."

There are tears in his eyes now, he's sure. But the rain has already soaked him to the bones; hair, and clothes plastered against his skin. The rain makes the tears flow easier, all while hiding it. "For so long?"

Slowly, carefully, Iwaizumi raises his hand to wipe the tears in his face. "I would have loved to."

Sometime later, Iwaizumi walked him home. They hold the _bayong_ between them, the mangoes glistening with rainwater. The slippers are wet beneath the pads of his feet, but the pain of stones pressing against his feet no longer registers. Once or twice he slipped, but Iwaizumi always catches him with a hand in his arms, or on his back—a stronghold urging him to lean on and relax, even once in a while. But Oikawa is afraid, that this would be the last in what would be a very very long time.

"What do you think of weddings, Iwa-chan? Do they interest you?"

"When they are of my friends, of course."

"Will you come then, to my wedding?"

Iwaizumi hoists the bag further to him, lessening the weight Oikawa is carrying—like he always did when they were young. "When?"

"May, I think. Next year."

"Ah, May is the month of happiness."

"As they say."

"As they say."

They stop in front of the gate. Inside, the front door of the house is open, and they see Ushijima cleaning the place with the kids. A muddy ball of volleyball dripping wet on the terrace.

"Will you come?"

Iwaizumi laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Why not?"

"No reason at all. So we'll expect you there? Ushiwaka likes you, you know."

"I'd rather not keep your hopes up, Tooru."

"So, you're not coming?"

"I'm leaving tomorrow."

"Oh." Silence. The only sound Oikawa can hear is the laughter from the house—Ushijima's low, smooth voice, the kids' higher-pitched ones. He feels like everything is muted, like those seconds under the sea after a semi-confident dive. "I see."

Silence fill the space between them again. Iwaizumi looking anywhere but at him. Until Oikawa breaks the silence, his voice calmer and confident—so unlike the warring emotions within him. "Can I come to say goodbye?"

"Do you have to?" Iwaizumi asks, like he's not sure. Like he genuinely thinks there's no need to. And at the back of his mind, Oikawa also thinks that maybe there really is no need to. A thought proven by the time lost between them, with their paths slowly diverging and with no clear sign of where either of them is heading.

"I would like to."

"I'm afraid there's no more time, Tooru."

Without another word, Oikawa just smiles and nods, he slips his fingers on the hold Iwaizumi has on the bag and carries it on his own instead. He sees Ushijima stepping out of the house in his periphery, smiling and waving at Iwaizumi.

The rain has turned into a drizzle by now and Ushijima meets him with wonder in his eyes, silently asking why Iwaizumi—the star of a childhood he lived through Oikawa's memory, someone he has also grown fond of—has left without a word. Oikawa shakes his head for an answer, it will be enough for now, while they share an umbrella; the slowly emerging sun casting shadows on the words he longs to say.


	2. there's a time that I remember, when I did not know no pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah here we go! an epilogue of sorts, set years after the first chapter.
> 
> If it's unclear why Iwa left,,,, well there's this thing among activists in the PH where they go to the mountains to join their comrades in fighting for the rights of the masses. So, something like that.
> 
> Also half-filo Iwaizumi propaganda!!!!!!!!
> 
> Unbeta'd. But I hope you still enjoy!

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Towards the west, the sun is just about to set when Oikawa steps foot in the university. Unlike the gravel road he had accustomed himself to, and have come to associate with when he comes back here, his foot meets red bricked gutters. The sound of his steps muffled, the idle chatter of the students filling his ears as the last rays of the setting sun illuminate the green of the grass and fallen leaves. It's calm. Serene, even. The purr of the jeepneys lulling him into a certain sense of familiarity.

The sunken garden is beautiful, even more so during sunsets, when sunlight reflects on the old, renovated buildings, peeking through the gaps to cast shadows and warm the ground one last time before the moon slides to its rightful place in the sky.

Oikawa Tooru finds himself looking back to the past ten years: his volleyball career, travels, relationship, marriage. The burnt bridges that lit his way back home. And it wasn’t like he’s unhappy with his marriage, far from it. He felt no rebellion, merely the calmness of what he had come to realize as the inevitability of circumstances and the meeting of characters. No more slow blood beginning to beat violently, no more struggles, no more stirring of emotions, and what ifs. Just the calm acceptance of everything that has come to be.

A sigh escapes him as he looks up to the towering trees obscuring the buildings around him. How peaceful, to walk these grounds and remember the memories of someone else gathered from words on screen. How peaceful it is, to simply remember. 

He lets his gaze follow the sloping path and to the loud noises in front of one of the buildings, seeing placards raise high as the mobilization draws to a close. And—

_Oh._

He stands there, missing the shade of an old acacia tree by a couple of steps when he sees him again. Ah, Oikawa should’ve known, should’ve realized it earlier before he accepted the invitation to a local exhibition game between universities. The sky is about to enter twilight now, the fading light of the sun lighting up the hazel of his eyes, casting shadows of his broad shoulders to the concrete ground, voice blending with the call to arms as it muffles his footsteps, fist raised high. He would know him anywhere, in this lifetime and to the next, in this universe and to another, even without the sun to guide him.

When the campaign draws to a close, Oikawa comes to himself, remembering exactly where he is. But his body stubbornly refuses to move, even when the passing vehicles obscures his view of that smile, of those eyes crinkling at the corners with each laugh, of how—with the way his body navigates the crowd—does he look more at home, at ease than Oikawa has seen of him almost ten years ago. 

But oh, how wonderful, to finally meet Iwaizumi Hajime’s eyes again.

He remembers reading somewhere that emotions only last for about ninety seconds unless we attach stories to them. The sensations, the adrenaline coursing through his veins. A load of bullshit, if you ask him. How could emotions last only for ninety seconds, when the way the fading sunlight muted by the clouds hits his face, when the smile he directs to his friends turns its full-force to him, when he lowers his defenses and relaxes his stance even for just a moment to meet him makes him remember—the time before, the time between then and now. He remembers letting Iwa-chan go in small moments throughout the years. No longer does he regret not walking the same path as him when they were young, no longer does he resent the universe for their destiny of trudging the same earth but living worlds apart. 

It wasn’t like he was in love, so much as he felt a tender curiosity—on what had been, of what could have been. Like the gentle ripples of a destiny fulfilled in another universe beckoned him to peek, to see for himself another possibility he had failed to see when it crossed the sky. Not in this lifetime, not in this universe, but in another — when the time is right, and the world doesn’t feel like forcing them apart. 

The crowd disperses and he watches as Iwaizumi bids his goodbye to his friends. He wonders if he should stay, right here, rooted to this exact spot until he comes to says hi; maybe they could chat a little longer, catch up. After all, the last he heard of him was that he went to the mountains to be with his comrades, fighting for the rights of the masses. Oikawa wonders if they have won, if that’s why Iwa-chan is back here again—in his old university he only told Oikawa about in fleeting letters and unabashed declarations of dreams. Or if he merely got over his heart’s desire.

“Didn’t know you were back.”

And _oh,_ Oikawa wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all, at the way Iwa-chan greeted him with the same words from ten years ago, at how he throws his smile at him like nothing changed, like everything is still the same and not as though they threw away something wonderful the last time they parted.

“It’s like you always never know.”

“So it seems.” Iwaizumi replies, looking down at his feet as he falls in step beside him; walking aimlessly, the world continuing its motions around them. “Do you hate me for it?”

Oikawa laughs—a soft one, shared in the space between them, and with no lingering bitterness. He used to imagine this meeting a lot before, Ushijima even asked him once or twice, always eager to meet Iwa-chan again; as if he understands, in a sense that Oikawa doesn't, that Iwaizumi will always be in his heart even if he seems to fail to be in his life. _As they both fail to be in each other’s lives._ He used to imagine it, in the dazzling light of the moon, whenever they’re back in the country; or during a good night, in a far away place. Not once, did he ever know what to say.

“No.” He looks up, peeking at the slowly dimming sky between the branches of the tree; twilight is about to end now. “No, I don’t think I do. It’s not like I could ever hate you, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi hums, “And how are you?”

“‘m good. And you?”

“Better now.”

Iwaizumi invites him for dinner, at the local shop within the university that he says makes the best flavored chicken. He considers the offer, his plans does not include this… abrupt reunion, but he finds himself agreeing.

They talk, like old souls meeting again under the guidance of the moon. Iwa-chan asks about Japan, volleyball, about Wakatoshi and their parents, what brought him here of all places. And Oikawa watches him the whole time, thinking of what could’ve drastically changed when it looks like Iwa-chan hasn’t changed at all.

And then once again, they part ways. This time beneath the fizzling lamp post in front of Iwaizumi’s college building, its yellowish light softening the surroundings. Gently, almost as if he’s scared, Iwa-chan pulls him into a hug.

“I’ll see you around, yeah?”

Oikawa raises his arms to return the hug, closing his eyes as he buries his face on Iwa-chan’s shoulders. Gray shirt, he wonders if it’s the same gray shirt from years ago; Iwa-chan did have that habit. He wonders if he still has it now.

“Yeah.” He nods, thinking if he should’ve felt some burning in his eyes again as the tears threaten to fall; like ten years ago, and every summer before that.

But there’s no such thing. They met again like old souls drawn by the moonlight and the stars, and they parted as such again in the blanket of darkness offered by the night. At the back of his mind, Oikawa thinks this might just be another story to tell — for when the rain soaks the ground again, when the tears turn the gray shirt a shade darker. 

He peers back to the sky as he waits for his ride, only to meet a couple of stars twinkling in the background. So there’s all of that, the moon seems to say, having witnessed all that has been, but still keeping the secret of what could have been.

Why had he clung to that promise, let it plant itself to his heart until it grows, until reality clutches it in its claws and wretches it away?

And there’s all of that— _all of it—_ but with no more tears, the stars clear and bright as he basks in their light; still in its rightful place, after having been extinguished a long time ago—a symbol of a dream, of something nonexistent.

He used to dream of it, a long time ago, under the dazzling light of the moon on a beautiful night. Which is now just a hazy memory, a burning wisps of gray at the back of his mind.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope it kinda lived up to the angst of the og Dead Stars ヽ(；▽；)ノ
> 
> hmu on [twitter](https://twitter.com/completist_)!


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